


Pushed

by beckettemory



Category: Leverage
Genre: Exhaustion, Gen, Nathan Ford is a Tyrant, Overworking, autistic characters, meltdowns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-14
Updated: 2017-01-14
Packaged: 2018-09-17 10:06:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9318557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beckettemory/pseuds/beckettemory
Summary: Eliot is the team jack-of-all-trades. Which is fine. Except that they're knee deep in their third (or is it the fourth?) job in a row with no breaks and Eliot desperately needs a breather.





	

**Author's Note:**

> warnings for: mention of minor injuries; mention of death; reference to murder; reference to vehicular accidents and resulting death; internalized ableism; mention of more overt ableism

Eliot was… exhausted. 

They were on their third job in a row with no breaks (or maybe it was the fourth--there had been a cast shift in the middle of one, but some people had been the same--was that a new con or one really long one?) and Eliot was starting to desperately need a day off. In the past three weeks he’d used not one, not two, not even three, but  _ eight _ different personas in addition to his own. He was rapidly approaching a critical mistake; already his identities were getting jumbled in his head. He currently wore a university athletics t-shirt under his Hawaiian shirt, and his blazer pockets held business cards for two of his personas. 

Nate was on a roll, zipping through whole planning phases in the time it took Eliot to go to the grocery store for toilet paper and quick meals for the five of them for a few days. Nate was doing that thing where one success made him launch immediately into another job without consulting his crew, but none of them bore the brunt of Nate’s tyranny as severely as Eliot. Sure, Parker had had to go directly from one break-in to another and then to a meeting with their mark, and Hardison had slept very little in the past three weeks between monitoring security footage and making identities when Sophie called audibles and hacking into the Department of Energy, but those were their  _ jobs.  _ They  _ liked _ doing that shit. 

But Eliot? His job was punching. Not grifting, which he had been doing, or transportation, which he had been doing, or patching up Parker’s cuts when she scrambled too fast through a vent with exposed screws, which he had been doing, or distracting half a dozen small yappy dogs while Nate broke into their house, which he had been doing, or crawling through an inch of dust in an attic to plug a thing into another thing, which he had been doing, or doing all of the cooking and cleaning in Nate’s apartment for nearly a month, which he had been doing, or taking a job into his own hands and saying no, this plan will get at least one of us killed,  _ which he had been doing.  _

_ It wasn't his fucking job.  _

And fine, Eliot  _ could  _ do all that. And he would, gladly, because he loved his crew more than his flesh-and-blood family and he wanted them to be safe and successful. 

But  _ damn,  _ was some acknowledgement too much to ask for? And maybe a day of downtime?

At the moment Eliot was throwing together dinner for everyone and listening to Nate explain his new, needlessly complicated plan. He hadn't had time to change when he got back from messing with their mark before Sophie and Hardison were whining about being hungry. Not that he had clean clothes to change into. Laundry had also been his job, and he hadn't had time to go back to his apartment for more clothes or to wash the ever-growing pile of laundry that was accumulating in Nate’s apartment. And despite what everyone thought, he  _ did _ actually need sleep. Especially after so many fights lately. He had injuries to heal. 

He was grumpy, and he was tired, and he was sore, and he was overworked. 

“So that's Plan A,” Nate was saying, and he flipped over the task board to show that the other side was divided into four quadrants, each with a small, detailed flowchart. “Plan B,” he said, pointing to the top left quadrant, and Eliot turned back to the stove, “kicks in if Franks gets suspicious of Hardison, at which time we change tactics and go after the daughter instead of the father. In that case, Eliot, you'll—Eliot, are you listening?” he called towards the kitchen, and Eliot's hands shook in their stirring the veggies in the wok. 

He was tempted to stay quiet, but Nate would just come over and talk louder, and Eliot wasn't sure what he would do if he got any more frustrated. 

“I'm listenin’,” he replied without turning to face Nate. 

“Come on over, you should look at the chart,” Nate said, but it didn't much sound like a suggestion. 

Eliot bristled and he had to take a second to compose himself before he trusted himself to speak. “I’m makin’ dinner, Nate. Can't leave it alone.” His voice was more harsh than it should've been, but there was nothing he could do about it now. He stirred for a second, the silence behind him nearly pulsating in its intensity. “I'm listenin’,” he repeated. “Just keep goin’.” 

There was another long second of silence, and then Nate cleared his throat lightly. “Okay,” he said. “Eliot, in Plan B you'll be playing the mysterious handsome stranger to Franks’s daughter.” 

Hardison snorted, and Eliot began stirring harder. This wasn't good. Every single thing happening in the apartment was pissing him off. He could feel himself heating up, but everything around him was happening so much he couldn't even reach his coping mechanisms without bumping into a sound or thought that rubbed him the wrong way. 

“How come Eliot gets to be the handsome stranger,” Parker whined, sounding truly disappointed, and Eliot took the wrong second to turn to the other counter for more ingredients, and he saw Hardison’s slack-jawed, cloudy-eyed look as he no-doubt imagined Parker flirting with Franks’s attractive daughter, and a retort was out of his mouth before he could check himself. 

“Because she ain't a lesbian, Parker, and because I do fuckin’ everythin’ else, why the  _ hell  _ shouldn't I also make a cute girl fall in love with me just  _ in my spare time,”  _ Eliot snapped, seeing red and, before he knew what he was doing, flinging his spatula onto the floor hard. It slid to a stop just behind Sophie’s chair, and he felt four pairs of eyes on him as he stalked across the apartment, tearing off the stupid blazer and tossing it to the ground as he went, through the door at the far end of the apartment into the next loft. He slammed the door behind him and kept walking. 

His thoughts were loud and red hot and he paced quickly in a large circle around the front room of the loft adjoining Nate’s, where the other four of them often crashed for a few hours at a time during long jobs. Hardison had furnished it, and all the orange he had for some reason thought was a good idea just burned at Eliot’s eyes and agitated him further. 

He was dangerous like this. 

Growing up, when he got worked up and lashed out he'd done damage, and he'd been suspended from school a few times because of it. Now he could do twice as much damage in his sleep, and in  _ this _ state he was deadly. He prayed none of the crew came after him. It wouldn't go well for anyone. 

His hands automatically went to his hair, pulled up into a little half-bun, and he tore the elastic out, snapping it in the process. He flung the useless elastic to the floor and shoved his fingers through his hair, working the tangles out, and the sharp tugs at his scalp hurt but also calmed him some, gave him something to focus on that wasn't his anger or the itchiness of his shirt. 

All too soon, though, the tangles were gone and his hands were free again, and he clenched them by his sides as he continued to pace around the perimeter of the room. 

There was some kind of sound in the loft that was pissing him off, and with a start he realized he was grumbling and growling without having noticed. A curse tore itself from his throat and he snarled in annoyance at his inability to keep his voice--his  _ body _ under control. That was his  _ whole thing.  _

Just his luck to lose his cool around his team, the people who trusted him with their lives, who depended on him so much they didn’t even realize it--and  _ that _ was not a thought that was helpful right now. He took it as a good sign that he could at least recognize what thoughts weren’t helpful and, though with some difficulty, stop the bad thoughts in their tracks. 

He didn't hear any movement on the other side of the door, and it stayed closed. At length he calmed down enough to stop pacing and sit, fidgeting agitatedly, on the couch, and when his boots were no longer clunking noisily around the room he could hear the low thrum of Nate’s voice through the wall. 

In time Eliot could sit without fidgeting much, and, beginning to grow exhausted from his tirade and… well, everything else, he took off his boots and itchy Hawaiian shirt and stretched out on the couch in just his jeans, t-shirt, and socks. 

He was still pissed off, and it flared when he allowed his thoughts to stray to everything that was expected of him or his behavior in the last half hour, but he was more in control of himself now. His coping mechanisms were within reach, and he worked on his breathing first, just in and out, feeling the stretch of his belly with every breath, feeling the cool air at the back of his throat with every inhale. He closed his eyes and paid attention to the images floating through his head. He imagined they were projected onto a chalkboard, and whenever there was an image that wasn't helpful, he imagined taking a chalkboard eraser to it and clearing it away. 

In time, he was calm, and he opened his eyes. 

There was much less light coming in through the windows behind his head now. The other apartment was quiet, and the whole building felt empty. He knew it wasn't; McRory’s would just be getting busy for the evening, but the upper floors were undoubtedly vacant. He listened hard, holding his breath, for any sign of Parker in the vents, but he couldn't hear her or feel her presence. Which isn't to say that she definitely wasn't there, but of all of Eliot’s crew members, he could probably most stand being around her right now. 

He got slowly to his feet and, leaving his boots by the couch, went through the door and into the other apartment. 

Everyone was gone. Half of the lights had been turned out, and by the smell of things someone else had finished the stir fry. He crossed the room, his feet barely making any sound, to the kitchen. There was a plate left out with a sad, but passable, stir fry, and a note just to the side, in Sophie’s handwriting. 

_ “Eliot,”  _ the note read. 

_ “Don't worry about Plan B. It's been reworked, and all we need from you for the rest of this job is physical security tomorrow afternoon at the warehouse. Hardison is working from the back room downstairs, and the rest of us are out. Take the night off. You deserve it.”  _

Eliot smiled a little at the note, feeling some of the leftover tension leech from his shoulders. 

Finally, some recognition. And all it took was a temper tantrum. 

He sat on the couch and turned on a hockey game (a minor conference, not the NHL, but from what he could tell it was a pretty good home team), and ate slowly. He hadn't really taken time to eat in more than a week. It had been mostly protein bars and, when he had time to make or buy something else, he’d had little time to savor it. When he was done eating he sat a little while longer watching the game, until his exhaustion caught up with him. 

He debated crashing in the second loft, but the longer he thought about it the more he wanted to be home in his own bed, so when the period was over he turned off the tv, dropped his dishes in the sink, collected his boots, shoved his dirty laundry in a spare duffel, and went down to the pub. 

He meant to walk straight from the elevator out the front door and around to the parking lot behind the building, but his feet carried him to the back room instead, where he knew Hardison was working. 

Hardison was sitting at the far end of the room with his back to the door, but when Eliot opened the door he spun around. Eliot tried not to notice the brief look of fear that crossed Hardison’s face, but he did and he felt guilt spike through him. 

“Hey,” he said, pushing the guilt down and locking it away. 

Hardison relaxed some after studying him briefly. Eliot came further in the room and shoved his hands in his pockets. 

“Hey man,” Hardison said, a strained attempt at casualness. “You, uh… you feelin’ better?” 

Eliot grimaced and had to look away. “Yeah, yeah.” 

There was an awkward silence and Eliot felt his cheeks heating up in embarrassment. 

“Listen, man,” Eliot began, reaching up to rub the back of his neck. “I’m sorry ‘bout all that. It was outta line.” 

Hardison shook his head. “Nah, man, you’re right. You do so much.” He quickly checked something on his laptop and hit a couple keys. “‘Tween you an’ me, dude, Nate’s goin’ overboard. I don’t blame you at all.” 

Eliot shrugged, surely blushing even more. “Anyway, I’m… I’m sorry.” He shifted his bag on his shoulder. “I’m goin’ home. Let me know if y’all need me.” 

Hardison scoffed. “Dude, just take the night off and be done with it. None of that ‘let me know if you need me’ crap. Go home.” He waved Eliot off and grumbled to himself, something like, “team mom,” and, “can’t just take a day off without gettin’ all...” 

Eliot allowed himself a tiny smirk as he shoved through the back door which led straight out to the parking lot. 

The short drive to his apartment was quiet, and he felt his eyelids growing heavy. He managed to get all the way there and park in his spot without crashing and dying, though, so he counted it as a win. 

When he opened the door to his apartment he sighed heavily. He’d only been home a couple times in the last week, to grab clothes or throw together a quick lunch or crash for a few hours, and his apartment was trashed. He groaned as he took in the clothes and shoes lying scattered all over the open plan front room, the dishes piled high in the sink, and, through the door to the bedroom, the bags and clothes littering the bed. 

“Fuck it,” he muttered to himself, and locked the front door, toed off his boots, dropped his bag by the door, and went around to all of the windows, making sure they were locked and drawing the blinds closed. 

In the bedroom he shoved everything on his bed onto the floor and left it. He dug around in his dresser until he found some old, soft sweatpants, and changed as quickly as his fatigue would allow. He barely turned off the light and got in bed before he was asleep. 

He was disoriented when he woke up. Something was off. He sat up in bed and squinted around in confusion, and it was nearly two minutes later that he realized what was off: his apartment was  _ clean. _ Slowly his memory of the night before came back, and he slowly got out of bed. The floor was clear, and his laundry hamper empty. He peeked into his bathroom and saw that it too was clean, but more careful inspection showed his toothbrush and shower things in the wrong places. 

It would have been far from the first time he had ever sleepwalked, but he’d never cleaned in his sleep to his knowledge. He’d eaten half a gallon of ice cream, changed clothes, had whole conversations, taken showers, and beaten up pillows and, on one notable occasion, started to beat up Hardison. But he’d never cleaned. 

He looked at the clock and cursed under his breath. It was almost noon--he’d slept for  _ sixteen hours.  _

He went into the front room to see what else he'd apparently done, and was surprised to see a figure stretched out on his couch. He jumped and his hands automatically came up in fists, but he put them down immediately when he saw who it was. 

_ “Parker,” _ he said, and she grinned sheepishly at him. “What the hell?” 

She sat up, swinging her feet down to the floor. “You slept a long time,” she observed. “I was starting to get worried.” 

Eliot shook his head and went into the kitchen. “So you broke into my apartment?” The floor of the front room was clean--not just free of clothes and shoes and papers, but  _ clean,  _ like it had been swept and mopped, too. The sink was clean and empty, and the countertops had been wiped down. 

Parker scoffed and came over after him. “Don't be silly. I've been here all night.” 

Eliot squinted at her, debating whether to raise a fuss about the invasion of privacy, but he let it go. It was Parker. Invasion of privacy was practically her middle name. 

She hopped up on one of the stools on the other side of the breakfast bar and poked at a spot of what looked like dried spaghetti sauce. She frowned and reached for a paper towel. 

“Wait, so  _ you _ cleaned my apartment?” Eliot asked, things finally clicking into place. 

Parker made a face and hopped down from the stool. “Well,  _ you _ definitely didn't,” she said with a laugh as she ran the paper towel under the tap and went back to her spot. She cleaned up the spot of sauce and looked up, then furrowed her brow when she saw him looking quizzically at her. “Did you think you cleaned up?” she asked. 

Eliot shrugged. “Maybe. I sleepwalk sometimes.” 

Parker laughed. “Oh yeah, remember that time you yelled at Nate in your sleep?” 

Eliot narrowed his eyes at her. “... _ no,  _ I don't.” 

Parker hummed and shrugged. She balled up her paper towel and tossed it perfectly into the trash can almost without looking. 

Eliot groaned and rubbed his face with both hands. “Okay, you cleaned my apartment, that's real nice, thanks,” he said without moving his hands from his face. “But why are you  _ still  _ here?” 

Parker collapsed back onto the couch and put her feet up. She pointed towards the closet that held the washer and dryer. “Waiting for laundry.” She folded her hands behind her head casually. “And I wanted to make sure you were okay.” 

She said it so matter-of-factly and offhandedly that her concern almost didn't register. He crossed the kitchen and stood in the middle of the living area, frowning down at her. 

“Yeah, I'm fine,” he said. He looked away from her; her open, casual expression was getting to be too much. “I'm sorry ‘bout last night.” 

Parker shrugged. “You just had a meltdown,” she said neutrally, and he frowned at her. 

“I ain't a kid, Park,” he said, frustration leeching into his voice. 

She sat up, her brow furrowing. “No, no, not a tantrum,” she said. “A  _ meltdown.  _ All autistic people get them. Including grown ups.” 

Eliot blinked at her. He'd never told anyone he was autistic. He'd only found out himself a couple of years ago, and after doing some research he'd decided to put a lid on it and keep it to himself. Not hide, really, just not… be as vocal about his autism as Parker was about hers. 

How the hell had she guessed? 

“I never said I was autistic,” he muttered, his shoulders automatically tensing. He started thinking over his behavior, trying to pick out things that Parker would have seen. 

Parker sat up, her brow knitting in concern. “You didn't know?” 

Eliot shook his head to clear it and he sat heavily in an armchair nearby. “No, I knew, but I don't…  _ tell _ people. How'd you find out?” 

Parker shrugged. “I can just tell.” 

When Eliot stared at her she fidgeted in her chair and looked away nervously. “You chew on stuff when you think people aren't looking,” she said quickly. “You don't like being touched. You don't really do a lot with your face except make it look grumpy.” She shifted in her seat and twisted her fingers together on her lap, then pulled them apart and patted her knees nervously. 

“Parker,” Eliot warned. She was hiding something, and badly. 

“And you… you understand me,” she said in a rush, blinking quickly and focusing her gaze on the window. “People don't… people don't get me,” she said, her voice growing hoarse. “They just don't. I’m weird and annoying and I don't get stuff and things bother me that don't bother them. But you understand me and treat me like a  _ person.” _ Her voice cracked on the last word and Eliot’s preoccupation with how she had known immediately dropped from his mind. 

He looked away from Parker and stayed quiet, letting her recover. She sniffled and cleared her throat lightly. 

“So I just thought… maybe you get me because you're  _ like _ me. So I started paying attention,” she said after a long pause. 

Eliot didn't know what to say, so he just stood and held a hand out to Parker. She took it and let him pull her to her feet. He hugged her, wincing a little when her shirt brushed over his bare chest in just the wrong way. He pulled back and studied her briefly. Her eyes were red and she had bags under her eyes, and he noticed that she was still wearing her air duct clothes. 

“When’s Nate need me?” he asked. 

Parker looked confused for a second, and then remembered something. “Oh, we’re done.” 

It was Eliot’s turn to look confused. 

“We finished the job last night,” Parker explained. She gestured around the room. “That's why I was here all night instead of staking out the office.” 

Eliot was reminded of the last three times they'd finished a job. “How long ‘til the next one,” he asked in a deadpan, steeling himself for when Parker inevitably said ‘tomorrow’ or ‘in an hour’. 

Parker shrugged. “Nate and Sophie are going to London for the long weekend,” she said. “So not until at least Sunday.” 

Eliot squinted at her. “So instead of sleeping… you came here to clean  _ my  _ apartment.” 

Parker nodded matter-of-factly. He rolled his eyes at her and went into the bedroom. He pulled open one of his dresser drawers and found a clean pair of sweats and a soft t-shirt. He threw them through the bedroom door and didn't hear them hit the ground. 

“I'm takin’ a shower,” he called through the door. “Text Hardison and invite him over. Tell him to bring his pajamas and a projector.” He stuck his head through the door and saw Parker smiling at him, all trace of her tears a minute ago gone now. “Breakfast for dinner and movie night,” he said. 

“Can we have French toast?” Parker asked, the pajamas clutched tight in her hands. 

Eliot smiled. “‘Course.” 

He made his way to the bathroom, making a grocery list in his head and allowing himself to relax for the first time in a month. 


End file.
